Baggage
by Krizzie
Summary: After losing Daryl, Merle seems to have gotten himself a little sister. Or maybe this not-so-little girl had gotten him. Either way, this would make surviving the apocalypse a little harder.
1. The Lost Girl and the Handless Redneck

"Hello?"

The first time Merle heard her speak, her voice was soft and scratchy like the words were clawing their way from her throat and reaching desperately to his ears. He almost knocked her down if it wasn't for the fact that he had just lost his hand. Merle thought for that split-second that had he had it, the back of his palm would have hit squarely on her dirt-stained cheeks and she would've been cleanly knocked off her feet.

The girl was dressed in a tattered flowery dress with a large poorly mended tear at the back. The first thing his mind did was mentally calculate her age, looking at her round face hiding behind long straight hair and placing her at around her late teens. The next thing he did was note the deep gashes on her bare feet.

"What did you want, sweetheart?" His voice lacked the usual malice in it. He was too tired of this shit. He had been cuffed to the goddamn roof by some punkass sheriff and been left for dead because that fat nigger didn't have the sense not to trip over his wide fag feet. He's almost been killed by a horde of those geeks. He's got no food, no weapons, no meth, no _brother_. He's got enough problems of his own without worrying about some little girl.

But hey, she's company.

"You're hurt."

Isn't she observant? Merle would have rolled his eyes if he had the energy. He brandished the newly cauterized stump before the girl's eyes.

"Got it all patched up, darlin'. Nobody can kill ol' Merle but Merle." He watched her look at the burnt flesh. He could still smell his own skin burning and swallowed thickly. No way he was gonna gag. Was no woman.

Her blank stare was interesting but Merle was starting to feel uncomfortable at this awkward stand-off, so he gave her one of his trademark salacious grins.

It had its usual effect, the girl's whole frame jerked, like she was catching herself from some dream state. One of them shy ones, Merle thought. Her eyes darted back and forth from his bloody face, to the faint smoke rising from his stump, to the open window just at his back. Her knees tensed and for a second Merle expected her to sprint but apparently, human contact weighed far more in her mind than any semblance of preservation because the next second Merle found her sitting cross-legged a few feet across from him.

"Hi, Merle." Her voice was a bit stronger, still scratchy. She cleared her throat. "I'm Tala."

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** I haven't written anything in years so I'm a little excited about this. Testing the waters around for a bit (especially since I'm pretty new at the TWD fandom, at least fanfic-wise) Let me know if it seems interesting?

**General disclaimer:** I do not own The Walking Dead or any of its characters. For now, I only own Tala.


	2. Merle Meets the Governor

It looked eerie under the bright fluorescent light. (For a minute, Merle reveled in the knowledge that there even still _were _fluorescent lights. Let alone electricity.) Like a thrice scabbed over cigarette burn. Picked at and scratched again and again and again, the wound never healing.

Slowly, he rotated his wrist, trying to ignore that little itch, that nagging urge to take another hit.

Clockwise.

Counterclockwise.

Turned and looked at the slight pucker where the gnarly skin closed over bone. Tried to imagine his lost hand, saw his knobby fingers, veins protruding beneath sunburned skin, patches of white hair near his wrist and just after his knuckles. Then he blinked and tried to make peace with the fact that it's gone.

Merle had always been good with his hands. Never been good with people or school but he could do honest work, at least the couple of times he cared enough to try. Losing one hand was like losing half himself. Goddamn Officer Friendly. He'll knock his teeth in if he ever saw that no-good face of his again. Cuff 'im to one of them damn roofs see how he likes it.

He flexed his non-existent fingers.

Alone, one-handed, in the face of the end of the world.

He spat on the linoleum. If anybody could do it, he fucking could. Dixon always came out on top.

Merle could still remember the intense burn of his flesh. Again, he swore vengeance against that blasted sheriff, that no good nigger, hell to all of them at that pussyass camp. Then he wondered about his brother. Sweet little Darleena. Spineless bastard probably never followed through with their plans.

"You should let us patch that up."

Tired blue eyes looked up at the sound of a smooth baritone. Must've been the governor all them damn hussies kept talking about. Pretty boy was wearing pressed clothes and a white pearly welcoming smile that did not seem to reflect that calculating look in his eyes. Merle knew his type. He also knew that he was in no position to be rejecting favours.

"You must be the governor."

"That is what they call me." The man chuckled, but made no move to offer his own name. Douchebag.

A woman wearing a doctor's coat swept past behind the smiling man. She was carrying an armful of bandages and two large bottles of what appeared to be peroxide. Merle barely spared her a glance.

"Do you have a group…?" The governor paused, and Merle realized he was waiting for a name.

"Merle Dixon." He supplied. He thought about lying, but decided against it. Truth was easier to remember, and not like he had anything left to lose anyway. He gave them the annotated version. "Was with my brother and some stragglers from Atlanta. Went to look for supplies back in the city and some cop decides to cuff me to roof and leave me to die." Merle brandished his stump as if it was a trophy. Martinez looked sick. The governor was unimpressed. At that moment, the lady doctor gently took hold of his unsightly stump and turned it this way and that not unlike what he was doing minutes before.

"Is this from one of your group?"

The governor was holding up a silk handkerchief. One of them damn useless girly things Merle used to scoff at. It used to be white but was now burned and stained with grease and old blood. Merle could still remember the shaking fingers that wrapped the soft fabric on his stump, the endless stream of apology as he cursed the owner despite the lightness of her touch and not for the first time Merle wondered what was it about making people uncomfortable that made him so giddy—for lack of a better term.

But this was not the moment to muse about things. Merle blinked and broke his stare with the governor, focused instead on the steady hands now wrapping sterile bandages around were his hand used to be. "Nah. Picked it up from one of them shelves."

"I see." The handkerchief was returned to a back pocket. Merle resisted the urge to follow the movement. "I'm sure you must be tired. We'll get your wounds taken care of. Dinner. A room. We can talk tomorrow."

Merle knew the governor did not believe him.


	3. All Dressed-Up for the End of the World

Tala was light on her feet.

It was a skill honed due to a desire for freedom and parents who kept a tight leash. She knew how to walk on her toes, scuffling with bare feet on polished wood and slipping away from suffocating walls into the exhilarating liberty that only the fresh night air can provide. (Granted, she didn't do much. Just walk around the dark village streets feeding stray cats until she felt tired enough to sleep.)

It was a skill that had proven itself useful in the apocalypse.

She recognized the bleached hair of the woman who tended cashier 34. She was nice, Tala remembered, eager to smile and did not snap at her when she spent more than two minutes digging for loose coins down the pockets of her jeans. The tag pinned on her uniform announced to the world -or at least to Tala- that she was Jane.

Jane with her sunken eyes and bloody torn scalp did not hear Tala as the girl swept past her and into the teens' section of the store.

* * *

><p>Merle was woken up by clothes thrown at his face. Immediately, he spewed on threats of great violence towards his no-good baby brother. He was gonna get a fist up his ass that's what he's gonna get, beat him bloody and then-<p>

"Who's Darleena?"

The voice, though low and quiet, was definitely not his brother's. Also, definitely not male.

Merle was on his feet before the girl could even take her next breath. He pushed her down to the floor, barely noticing the squeak of pain as her shoulders landed first. Short nails clawed at the handless arm that he kept across her throat. Dark eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets as she struggled to scream or breath, Merle didn't know.

Tala.

The name bounced back in his head at the same time he noticed his apparent lack of an appendage. (Goddamn, he could use a hit.) The little burst of self-pity made him want to make her _hurt_ so he let her struggle for just a second longer before easing up on the pressure on her throat.

"Teach ya not to come up behind hunters, girl." He grinned at the dirty look she sent him. He noticed she had changed into a pair of jeans, some rubber-soled shoes, black tank top underneath an unbuttoned red flannel shirt. The long straight hair used to be bunched up and hidden underneath a dark blue baseball cap now spilled all over the floor. He felt a few strands underneath the palm supporting him and could almost feel the pain she felt as they pulled on her scalp. "All dressed up for the end of the world, huh?" He pointed at her tender throat, cradled by recently washed hands. "Gonna bruise."

"Get _up._"

Merle let up, slower than he could just to make her more uncomfortable. She was itching to push him off, he could tell, but had wagered not to in case she pissed him off more. Smart girl.

"Asshole." She managed to croak out.

Merle extended his arms, brandishing himself with glee. "As advertised."

Tala scrutinized him.

Merle spent that time scrutinizing her back. She was a tubby thing. Her face was round and full, with lips that hinted just a bit of a Cupid's bow. Her ratty fringe clung in weird clumps all over her forehead. She looked tired, weary and Merle almost felt sorry for her. Almost.

Apparently, he passed some sort of test (or maybe she realized she was all out of choices) because she spoke again. Merle found himself sadistically enjoying the slight rasp that remained on her voice. "Who's Darleena?"

"Baby brother." Merle did not expound and she was too busy accounting all the new bruises in her body to care.

"Stupid name." was all she managed to retort. Her throat was tender, her shoulders were sore, and her tail bone was hurting like a nothing else she could remember. Damn, she was a sheltered bitch, wasn't she?

She was apparently also a bit boring because when she returned her gaze to the older man, (His name was Merle, right? What kind of name was that? Stupid names must run in the family.) he had lost any and all interest in her and was looking at his stump, picking at it with his remaining hand.

To be fair, she would also have been more interested with a recently amputated hand than a clumsy sheltered stranger girl.

She pushed herself to her feet, hearing her joints creak in protest. "I'm Tala." She brushed the dust off her new jeans. "In case you forgot. You're Merle, yes?"

"Good ol' Merle Fucking Dixon." He replied. All the nitpicking had his wound opening up again.

Tala cursed herself for thinking of clothes and not thinking of bandages. She's got some rubbing alcohol on her bag. That would have to do. Normally, she wouldn't care. He could bleed out or get infected by all kinds of creepy superbugs. But there were reanimated corpses walking outside intent on eating her flesh and she knew she wouldn't survive by herself. Merle looked rough, and scary, like the typical hooligan her mom always warned her about, but he was all she had. And hooligans seemed like the best end of the world companion anyhow. She needed him. And he didn't seem _that _dangerous. Just a tad unstable. She was unscathed, wasn't she? Except for that whole pinning-her-to-the-floor business but Tala was willing to concede her fault on that point. With a sigh, she pulled out a silk handkerchief she had picked up on a whim and stepped closer to the redneck. (Silk handkerchief? What was she thinking? Vanity would kill her someday.)

Merle eyed her suspiciously when she came closer and rummaged through the small bag by his feet. She brandished the small cloth and the bottle of alcohol like weapons against his narrowed eyes. "May I?"

"Don't think your scrap's gonna help much."

She shrugged. "Gotta be better than nothing right?"

Merle did not agree but he let her play doctor on his stump anyway.


	4. Sparkling Water

She can't feel her fingers but her wrists were burning something awful. The acrid taste of whatever cloth they shoved in her mouth had bile rising up her throat. The thought of suffocating on her own sick was the only thing that had her fighting against the urge to throw up.

Tala had woken up when she was bodily shoved against a pile of almost-bursting shopping bags in what looked to be the inside of a cube van. The hair-rising sound of metal against metal grated in her ears as the van's door closed. Blind hot panic had her frozen and when her cognitive functioning returned no earlier than a minute later, she realized that they had her arms and legs bound tight with some really thick industrial rope and movement was never really an option anyway.

The van shook as someone got into the driver's seat. The engine started loud and unapologetic, drowning out the sound of her heart hammering against her chest as the vehicle started to move.

* * *

><p>(Three hours earlier)<p>

"You look like you could use it."

Tala had about five (read: four and a quarter) bottles of water left and she was reluctant to give one away. But she was willing to share on the off-chance that a careful truce could maybe earn her the scary man's trust (maybe get a ride or at least a companion out of the city). He was sweating. A lot. Tala was sweating too, but Merle looked like was drowning on his own weight in sweat. The day was sweltering, and he _was_ stuck in a roof for too long than a human being really should, but the bloodshot eyes, and the way he kept muttering "Darleena" and "Goddamn Pussy Officer" and something about kissing his lily-white ass. It was honestly all gibberish to her. Then he was laughing about getting sent to jail or something and that had her thinking maybe he was suffering from something a little worse than dehydration.

_I don't think he slept at all. And he won't stop picking at that bloody (tasteless pun, it was unintentional) stump!_

Carefully, she pushed an unopened bottle his way. She was sitting just about five feet to his right, cross-legged, a backpack full of stuff she looted –mostly granola bars, biscuits, and juice boxes— by her knees. For a minute she wanted to slap her slow brain for not thinking of getting cigarettes. Merle seemed like the type to smoke. He was rugged and sounded mean. Don't mean, rugged men all smoke? Maybe he'd be a bit nicer if he had some of those nicotine poison sticks in his system.

Tala slapped her inner judgmental bitch and buried her in the far corners of her brain. She really can't afford to piss off mean rugged men like Merle Dixon. Not before the apocalypse and certainly not after.

Also, Tala was pretty sure the man was going on withdrawal. _Well, crap. _She had absolutely _zero_ experience on people on withdrawal. He seemed fine though. Except for the talking to himself bit. _Now_, she really wished she had one of the damn nicotine sticks. Maybe he could smoke a pack, let that tide him over. Maybe she can hang it over his head, make him do her bidding.

_At least I can use him as dead cannibal bait if he ever goes gallivanting because some drug-induced hallucination._

Tala slapped her judgmental bitch-self again.

As compensation for the lack of nicotine, she opted to give him one of those flavoured sparkling water shit a college friend of her liked so much.

Her eyes caught the small strawberry on the label a split-second after her hands left the bottle. She didn't think Merle liked strawberry-flavored anything but it was too late to take the bottle back. Well, screw it. Water was water, wasn't it? People in the apocalypse can't afford to be picky. Not even tough ol' Merle Dixon.

Merle's amputated arm twitched in reflex before his other arm moved to get the bottle. His sharp eyes scrutinized her as she pretended not to notice the slip. Politely looked away as he tore the cap off with his teeth.

"You have any whiskey there, baby doll?" Merle asked before downing the water in one go. Tala didn't bother to tell him to take it slow. She didn't peg him as the type to listen to a stranger's advice. Plus she really, really, wanted to avoid pissing him off.

So instead she answered in the most unassuming tone she could muster, "I did not pass by the alcohol aisle, sorry."

Merle's bark of laughter made her jump. It was a raspy laugh, not really loud but certainly not less obnoxious. It sounded like it came from the back of his throat and refused to leave, choosing instead to jump back and forth on the walls of his windpipe. His dry lips were stretched across his face in a funny, almost grotesque manner as he threw his head back, the split lip once again bleeding.

"I don't get it." She snapped.

Merle gave a last amused snort as he wiped a dribble of water from his chin. "Temper, sugar tits."

_Pig._ Tala thought venomously. She wasn't the sort of person who appreciated being laughed at. But the part of her that was weary of Merle Dixon had her keeping the comment to herself.

"Alcohol aisle, tha's funny." Merle was still shaking his head in amusement. Tala still didn't get what was so funny but wisely chose to let him say his piece. He was scratching at his face, picking at the skin peeling from his forehead. The skin was red and inflamed and the whole thing just looked gross and painful. Tala had to consciously rein in the urge to cringe. "How old are ya, twelve? Didja go ta one'a those boarding schools fer prim liddol ladies? Catholic school girls with them long skirts and little silver crosses 'round yer neck?"

That struck a chord. Maybe because it hit a little too close to home. Plus, she never really appreciated it when people told her she was too young to do something. Even when she actually _was_. Tala was scowling and straightening her spine just to look a tad more menacing. Merle's cocked eyebrow spoke of the futility of her actions. Still, she pushed through. "I just turned twenty, if you must know."

"Twenty, huh?" The look Merle sent her way had the hair all over her body stand and in a split-second she lost all her faux bravado. She snapped her gaze back to her little backpack of supplies.

"I-uh. I just had my celeb- um, birthday. You know. Uh. Just celebrated my birthday." Goddamn mouth won't form words properly. Tala nearly slapped herself for real. "This trip to Atlanta was a-uh- a gift-you know. Came here with my friends. Booked a flight weeks in advance and everything." She rolled the quarter-filled water bottle between her palms as she smiled a small bitter smile. "Some trip it turned out to be, huh?"

"I hear a truck."

When a girl bares a little of her soul to a practical stranger she expects something a little more comforting in reply. Maybe a little awkward head patting would suffice. _At least something a bit relevant._

When Merle did not seem keen on elaborating, she attempted again, "We didn't ride one, no, but I-"

"Shut it. I hear a truck."

It took her a long embarrassing minute to realize what he was saying.

_Oh. _

While her stupid egocentric self was still trying to catch up, Merle was already halfway across the room.

* * *

><p>Her first guess was Merle's old buddies had come back and she was now being taken as some sort of collateral price for having to risk their asses going back in the city and not having found what they were looking for.<p>

Serves her right trying to team up with a man who was obviously hooked on drugs. Even if Tala wanted to slap herself she couldn't very well do so with her arms secured tight on her back.

Despite the pain, Tala tried moving her hands, growling low in her throat when the thick rope rubbed against her raw skin. It did not help that whoever was driving the vehicle clearly did not earn the right to a legal license by the way he kept mindlessly driving over potholes and loose rocks and just generally being a Sucky-Ass Driver. From what she can see of him, prone as she is and getting bounced around like a hapless doll in the back of a moving van, he had a close-shaved head and brown skin, and there were sweat stains on the collar of his shirt. Ew. A bump revealed the head of a man sleeping on the passenger seat next to him. Another bump had his head going back to leaning against the window. But Tala had already stopped focusing on the men and instead focused on the rifle leaning against the sleeping man's shoulders. Another internal screaming session lasted for a few more uncomfortable turns.

Tala clenched her eyes, moaning in pain as the van bounced again and she landed badly on her left shoulder. Tears welled against her eyelids.

_I know I haven't prayed in a while. But God, if you're listening, I really, really,_ really_ don't want to die yet. _


	5. Fluffy Slippers

She heard the silence more than anything.

The men left the van a few minutes ago taking all their noise with them. No more conversations. No more deep chuckles and closed fists against polyester seats. No more rumbling engine and the loud smack of her body bouncing against the metal flooring. No more tire skids and crunching rocks and the distinct sound of slapping wind and the snap of cheap lighters and the raspy coughs of chain smokers.

But that's fine. She can take the silence. She can take knowing she's been taken by men armed with powerful ammunition that they may or may not use on her. _Never mind that even without guns they could probably break her bones with a single well-aimed kick with their steel-toed boots._ She can take that dull throb of a probably dislocated shoulder. She can take the relentless mental screams of _ItoldyousoItoldyousoItoldyouso_ bouncing back and forth on the walls of her skull, that vile taste of acidic upchuck on the back of her throat, that sting of sweat and dirt mixing with the tears on her eyes.

(Or maybe not. Maybe she's just stubbornly clinging to consciousness because she's too scared to die.)

She's living in the world of the living dead. Still.

What she can't take is that empty feeling gnawing on her chest brought by the knowledge that the person she had latched onto for the past few hours has left her alone. She wanted to blame hormones, maybe even that second X chromosome, but whatever the cause, the pain of getting left behind –even by a practical stranger- hits her more than the possibility of actual physical pain.

The silence just made it easier for her to hear her inner judgmental bitch cursing out Merle Fucking Dixon for ditching her.

"Wake up little girl." Tala thought her voice sounded a little sardonic. "You're not in Kansas anymore."

* * *

><p>"Didya see anybody else?"<p>

Merle accepted the proffered smoke with his left hand with a little less fumbling than he anticipated. Good. Getting the hang of this. Merle decided to lay off the smugness for a while. Still too early. Not too wise to count your chickens before they hatch and all that.

"Thought you're weren't with anybody?" Martinez spoke around his. Menthol. Merle snorts. Douchebag.

"Wasn't. Just wanna see if you found other people. Maybe my brother went back for me or sumthin." Maybe the girl got away. Or maybe they saw her, thought she won't be much use, left her to the geeks while they jerked off watchin'.

Not for the first time, Merle felt that twinge of guilt. He thought he was doing her a favour leaving her behind. It didn't seem like he was in hindsight.

_Fuck. Never thought this much when high. _

"Sorry, man. No ugly sons of bitches came 'round askin' for you." Martinez was smirking, snickering long tufts of smoke from his lips and nostrils. "'cept for the usual ugly'ns anyway. Looked like they were your type though."

Merle blew smoke on his face.

* * *

><p>Someone was prodding her.<p>

Tala didn't remember falling asleep but apparently she did because she definitely was not in the van anymore. And she wasn't alone.

Her eyes snapped open and she tried sitting up, panicking for a slight moment when she realized that she can't. She relaxed a bit when she saw the large brown belt that was tying her to the bed.

Oh. I'm not paralyzed.

Then, _fuck_, I'm restrained.

"You feeling okay, sweetheart?"

Tala never liked nicknames but she was going to let this one pass (like all the other ones, spineless bitch) because she was in no shape to be picking any fights. Besides, the voice sounded really homely and nice. All low tones with the calm of present in everyone she knew involved in the medical profession.

"Shoulder hurts." she confessed, blushing at the dryness of her throat and the foulness of her breath. _Not really the time to be self-conscious. Get the fuck over yourself."_

"Dislocated." the nice homely voice told her. "But we got that all fixed up when you were sleeping. Does it hurt much?"

_Fucking yes. _"I can handle it. Can I sit up?"

"Of course, dear."

The voice belonged to a dark-skinned woman with very white teeth wearing scrubs that boasted a plethora of cartoon characters. Her smile was wide. Her hair was done up in little braids that were bunched together then pulled into a high ponytail. The hand helping her up was soft and warm against her back. The scrubs looked laundered and pressed and from what she can see of the floor as she was being fussed over, the woman was wearing a pretty kickass pair of fluffy slippers.

The woman looked clean and put-together. Really very much like her type of doctor. But that's not really saying anything because any doctor was her type of doctor. Who can really be picky at the state of things? Doctors were hot commodities in the apocalypse. And a clean doctor plus equipment meant structure. Maybe she stumbled on the last bit of functional government (or they stumbled upon her if you wanted to argue semantics) or at least a small community.

The light flickered, distracting her. _They even have electricity._

Also, the clean thing really appealed to her. Maybe they'll let her shower.

She felt more than saw the belt being removed from her. She was so tired. She wanted to nap but she figured she's not going to get any sleep just yet when the woman waved a man over.

He was tall, with slicked back hair and the gait of a man sure of his authority. He moved slowly, but with purpose, all with this Dawson Creek Pretty Boy smile.

That was how Tala met the governor.

The smile was aimed towards her. Along with his hand. She couldn't return the smile but managed an acceptably firm handshake at least by her standards.

He released her hand gently, apologized for waking her, apologized again for taking her in the first place, and then proceeded to welcome her to his little town.

Everything he said sounded too good to be true but Tala was too desperate to even entertain the slightest hint of suspicion. They gave her a bed, medicine and, if her nose is not betraying her, food. In her mind, it makes up for everything.

She really just wanted to be kept alive and she knew that alone she won't be doing as much good a job as they could have.

He was still smiling and she was still contemplating when he asked if she, by any chance, knew any tough as nails, cussing, left-hand-less Merle Dixons.


	6. Tattletale

A/N: Happy Holidays everybody!

* * *

><p>The governor lit a cigarette and leaned beside his office desk rather than returning to sit on the chair behind it. His every movement was slow and deliberate down to each careful intake of breath. He looked Merle Dixon in the eye before he tossed the half-full pack back inside a drawer.<p>

Merle knew a display of power when he saw one. That calculating stare. The blatant parade (and denial) of his preferred vice. The fact that he was given a stool like a petulant child about to get scolded by the school principal. Merle recognized and detested every single one.

The governor blew smoke in his general direction before speaking again. Merle watched the stream of smoke disperse with undeniable longing.

"You know the girl." Another deep breath. Another blow of smoke. Another glance at the coveted nicotine. "I don't appreciate being lied to, Merle. It's making me think that taking you in was a lapse in judgment."

Merle knows why he was there. The governor was a manipulative dictator. Merle Dixon was a wildcard. And there were only a handful of reasons people like the governor kept people like Merle Dixon.

The girl was the governor's trump card. Bargaining chip. Leverage. Collateral.

Merle came upon the clinic at the request of that menthol-smoking spic and chanced upon the girl sleeping on one of the assorted makeshift medical beds. The comical widening of his eyes upon seeing her was the first giveaway. The guilty expression upon seeing the governor watching him by the side of the room was the second.

If you ignored the armed sentinel on rotation it was almost like they were only living with an extended blackout. The growls beyond the corrugated iron were merely unpleasant substitutes for cicadas. Terrifying, but concealed enough for it to be a mere peripheral concern. Woodbury had rules, boundaries, walls, curfews, _food_. It had peace. But peace is built on lies and the governor was made for lying.

Liars detested their own kind.

Merle watched the smile drop from the governor's face with what little trepidation Dixons were allowed to feel. This was a test. One that he wanted to pass. A test he _needed _to pass. It wasn't that he liked the governor. He just really liked being alive.

"I'm not really concerned about her existence in itself, you understand." This time it was a double shot of whisky being swished around at the bottom of a crystal glass. Merle could feel himself salivating. "What I want to know,

The governor sat at the edge of the table. Downed the glass before setting it down beside his leg.

"I want to know if she's going to be a problem." Is she going to compromise things? Is she going to be a liability? Because liabilities don't just die. They ruin things before dying.

Dixons didn't squirm. They grunted. Noncommittal. In a battle of wills you either pressed or evaded. Merle was employing the latter. The governor looked impatient. Maybe pissed. It was gratifying but the little feeling of triumph was masked down by apprehension. The uncomfortable stool was doing wonders on working down Merle's self-esteem.

"She knows you by name, Merle." She knows him by name and the way she spoke of him was almost worship. There was a tinge of bitterness but just by her speaking about him the governor knew Merle had been forgiven.

_Girl didn't have an ounce of self-preservation in her, din' she?_ Merle cocked his head to the side and allowed himself to slouch. The chair received a harsh whispered curse and Merle adjusted himself. The governor watched the change in disposition with interest, a look that Merle missed when he turned to look at the locked door.

"Tala." Merle finally told. The apprehension was replaced by another feeling altogether. He felt like a tattletale. (In the back of his mind Merle recalled folk tales boasting about the power behind one's name, and the caution one must exercise in divulging it. In the same train of thought he remembered Daryl running with snot on his nose and dirt on his hands to a mother that once cared.) The lack of any sort of reaction on the governor's face let him know that the girl has supplied the same information. _Girl's got a mouth like a fucking loose cannon._ "Saw her just after I lost my hand."

"You didn't answer my question."

"No." Merle looked at the contraption he now sported on the stump. It was an unfinished scrap of a thing, but Merle already had blueprints on his head. "She's not going to be a problem."

"She's not with the group you were with then?" Torso forward. Eye contact. Interest. Maybe a little satisfaction.

"No, sir." Brilliant deduction. _I would clap my hands if I still had two._

More than his annoyance with the governor though, Merle was annoyed with himself. He felt cheap. And he felt like a coward. The guilt that he felt upon seeing the girl was nothing to that uncomfortable heaviness now riding in his chest. He could only describe it as feeling like he had let the girl down. Like he had denounced his alliance with her three times before a judgmental council. Granted she gave him no choice by not being quick enough to turn and run but it didn't ease the itch in what remains of his Dixon conscience. That he had somehow betrayed the trust that she so carelessly gave him. Logically, it didn't make sense, this feeling of having betrayed a girl he didn't really know but Merle knew firsthand how logic fell short in the great span of human behaviour. It was akin to what he felt when he left Daryl in the heavy hands of Will Dixon. The reminder of his brother made his chest clench anew.

At least she was alive. At least she wasn't eaten by those geeks. At least he could still watch her from here. Merle wondered why the girl even trusted him. Maybe she'd be better off if she had found herself with Officer Friendly.

The feeling didn't pass when the governor finally sat on his chair, introduced himself as Philip, and tossed Merle an unopened pack of Marlboro lights.

"You drink whiskey?"

_Might as well_. "Fuck yea."

He didn't see the girl for another two months.

* * *

><p>Tala was harbouring a little crush.<p>

Caesar Martinez was on gate watch. He was carrying a silver bat but strapped across his back was a familiar heavy-powered rifle. He was talking to archer girl, and damn it if she didn't feel a little jealous.

Martinez was the first man she saw the second time she woke up in Woodbury. He was leaning against the closed door, ear almost pressed against it as if he was eavesdropping. From where she was, she could hear Merle Dixon's voice on the other side. She went through emotions like a child channel surfing on a lazy Saturday afternoon- hope, elation, suspicion, betrayal, curiousity- before she stamped them down with a figurative Godzilla-sized hand.

The man straightened when the voices eventually trailed off. There was a wrinkle on his forehead that looked out of place. He didn't notice she was awake, and Tala didn't take very kindly to being ignored.

"Didn't your mother tell you that eavesdropping is rude?"

One thing she had to say about the encounter was that she was glad Martinez didn't have any guns on his person.

Tala would have liked to say that that was the beginning of a beautiful friendship, but really, it was just the start of a couple of months of her following him around like a smitten schoolgirl. It may have been a wee case of imprinting but he was nice enough and didn't mind a lot when she tagged along.

Painfully, she was reminded of Merle Dixon. Aside from his muffled voice on the other side of the door she hadn't glimpsed even a single hair on his head. She asked about him a lot. On the first week, Martinez told her he was recuperating, and was not allowed visitors by recommendation of the Woodbury doctors. Despite Tala's desperation to believe everything he said (because in a world with dead cannibals you desperately hope for good honest people) she couldn't help that nagging voice inside her head that told her he was lying.

Briefly during the first few weeks of her stay Tala entertained the thought that maybe Merle had not been around on her account. When the governor asked her about Dixon, she had, like the child Merle thought she was, went on and well _told on him_. In between anecdotes of her life pre-apocalypse she spun tales of meeting this god-awful redneck who kept saying mean things to her while forcing her to attend to his needs like getting food and caring for his ugly stump when in all actuality the only mean thing he really ever did was raise his voice at her. (Well, maybe he did rough her around a bit but Tala brushed it off and rationalized that it was an integral part of his survival instincts.) Tala took great pleasure in stretching the truth so thin that it was ripping at the seams and the governor was the first willing ear she had encountered after the Turn.

But now that she had weeks to process it, she realized that she missed Merle, and rationally leaving her behind may have been for her own good. It was illogical but god help her she trusted him. He felt like an older brother. And she always wanted one.

She didn't miss his snarkiness though.

(Okay, maybe just a bit.)

Anyway, Martinez assured her he was alive. After his story went from doctor-prescribed-recuperation to perimeter-check-duty-at-potential-safe-zones to looking-for-stranded-surviving- political-leaders to running-errands-for-the-governor though (which wasn't that far from the truth) she took everything he said with a grain of salt. At least Dixon was alive, and he didn't apparently receive the ass-whooping she initially hoped he would.

Besides, Martinez was much better company. And he was cute when he showed off. Which he did an awful lot.

Tala smiled at the sight of Martinez jumping down from the wall. He did it with much aplomb with the requisite smirk in her direction. She tried to smirk back but she was sure it just looked like an unflattering involuntary twitch.

He was walking towards the governor, who was apparently calling for volunteers for a supply run. Tala would have liked to go but she got cooking duty. (She didn't want to complain. At least they didn't make her do laundry. She detested laundry.) The feminist in her wanted to scream at the injustice of the implementation of traditional gender roles but she figured she could bitch about it if she survived long enough to not be considered one of the new people in town.

_You don't bitch to the hand that feeds you, is that not what they say?_

Well, the Martinez show was over. Tala turned, ready to head to the kitchens when she bumped into a man. The first thing she noticed was the makeshift bayonet connected to a hairy arm. Then she noticed the smell of a week's worth of sweat and grime and musk. Her stare rose with much difficulty from the shiny metal contraption into the face she's been anticipating for the last two months.

"Watch your feet girl, ain't got enough hands to catch ya."

Turns out, one hand was enough.


End file.
